


Days Like These

by HaMandCheezIts



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: Adults, Aging, Angst and Feels, Celebrities, Chronic Illness, Comfort/Angst, Crying, Death, Elementary School, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Talk, Illnesses, John Lennon's Death, Learning Disabilities, Mentioned Freddie Mercury, Mother-Son Relationship, Murder, Music, Musicians, References to the Beatles, Special education, Teaching, Terminal Illnesses, Thanksgiving, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27497605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaMandCheezIts/pseuds/HaMandCheezIts
Summary: A celebrity's passing shakes Marty McFly to his core, causing him to abruptly cancel his daily plans. On the advisement of his wife, Marty goes to talk to someone about his grief.NOTE:I changed the publication date on this fic to honor the 29th anniversary of Freddie Mercury's death.
Relationships: George McFly & Lorraine Baines McFly & Marty McFly, George McFly & Marty McFly, George McFly/Lorraine Baines McFly, Marty McFly/Jennifer Parker
Kudos: 4





	Days Like These

**Author's Note:**

> Lately I've been obsessing about celebrity deaths/sicknesses; the passings of Eddie Van Halen, Sean Connery, and Alex Trebek exacerbated this. I've recently been worried about Michael J. Fox and Huey Lewis, and part of that is because in my youth, they were both hale and hardy and at their successful peaks, unaware of the future illnesses that would rob them of their original professions. (Although MJF continues to write books, and Huey has his musical and his Apple Music series to concentrate on, so that's hopeful. They've also both participated in virtual reunions, for Reunited at Home and Stars in the House.) 
> 
> Anyway, this story is kind of my therapy, to work through my tear-producing and insomnia-inducing anxiety.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Back to the Future,_ Marty McFly, Jennifer Parker McFly, Lorraine Baines McFly, George McFly, Doctor Emmett L. Brown, or any other related characters. 
> 
> I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.
> 
> -ck

_Sometimes I get to feelin'_ _  
I was back in the old days, long ago._

_When we were kids, when we were young  
Things seemed so perfect, you know?_

_The days were endless, we were crazy, we were young  
The sun was always shinin', we just lived for fun. _

“These Are the Days of Our Lives” by Queen, from their 1991 album _Innuendo._

_Now we grieve, cause now is gone  
Things were good when we were young._

"C'mon C'mon" by The Von Bondies, from their 2004 album _Pawn Shoppe Heart._

**November 25th, 1991**

**7:08 A.M.**

**Hill Valley, California**

Jennifer Parker McFly wandered into the kitchen just as her husband was pouring coffee from a carafe into two mugs. “You’re up early,” she mumbled.

Marty McFly opened a packet of sugar substitute and shook it into his coffee, then sloshed the liquid around in his mug in an attempt to mix in the sweetener. “It’s a short week – same amount of work to do, less time to do it.” He blew on his coffee, then sipped tentatively at the beverage to check the temperature. “I’m hoping to get to school by 7:30.”

Jennifer sat down at the table, pulling her mug toward herself. “Can you get me – “ she broke off as Marty handed her the coffee creamer. “Thanks, hon.”

Marty grinned, then took a healthy swig of his sufficiently cooled coffee. “Are you going to get to the store later, or do you want me to head there after school?” he asked as he sat next to his wife.

Jennifer sipped at her now-lightened coffee. “I can go; I only have a half-day today. And I still need to call my mom to get her recipe for sweet potato casserole, so I know what to buy.” She gazed around the duplex as they both enjoyed their coffee, then later said, “Although, if you’re looking for something to do after work, you can clean.” 

Marty sighed. “Clean _more?_ I cleaned this place practically top to bottom over the weekend! C'mon, Jenn, our parents know us – they’re not gonna disown us if our place isn’t spotless.”

Jennifer swallowed down her latest sip. “I don’t care. This is the first holiday we’re hosting here, and the first time our parents will see this place when it isn’t a mess of moving boxes and half-decorated walls.” When her husband grumbled to himself, Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Fine. Just finish cleaning your office, all right?”

Marty nodded, smiling faintly. “Can do.” He checked the clock, took a long last swill, then rose to take his mug to the sink and rinse it out. “I gotta go if I want to get in early.” Moving back to the table, he leaned over and kissed Jennifer on the cheek. “Have a good day.”

“You, too – wait, Marty, can you bring in the paper before you go?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Grabbing the small pedal board gig bag he’d modified into a briefcase, Marty went out the front door, picking up the paper from the stoop. He scanned it briefly as he carried it back to Jennifer, awkwardly paging through the sections with one hand.

When he saw the headline in the Entertainment section, his case slipped from his grasp and thumped onto the floor.

Jennifer whirled around on her chair at the noise to see Marty standing rigidly in the front entryway. Most of the paper had slipped from his hands to flutter around his feet, but he still held one section, which he was staring at in horror.

“Marty?”

Her husband didn’t answer. He was looking wide-eyed at the paper, his face pale and his breathing shallow. Jennifer quickly rose, coming to his side. “Marty! What’s wrong?”

“He’s – he’s – “ Marty weakly waved the Entertainment section of the paper. Jennifer tried to take the pages, but Marty was gripping them too hard. She bent the edge of the paper over, trying to read the headlines.

“He’s dead,” Marty said bleakly, finally relinquishing the paper. Then he walked over to the table, fell into a chair, and put his head in his hands.

Jennifer turned the newspaper around, straightening the crinkles that Marty’s tight grip had produced – and then she gasped in shock.

 _FREDDIE MERCURY DEAD AT 45,_ the headline read. And under that: _Queen lead vocalist dies of AIDS._

“He – he had AIDS? Did you know that?”

Marty shrugged without raising his head. “It was rumored the last couple years. And he just confirmed it publicly the other day. He must’ve known...“ He hitched a breath, lifting his head, and Jennifer was startled to see his eyes were red and puffy. “Oh God, how am I supposed to teach music today? I don't think I'll be able to keep it together at school.”

Jennifer dipped her chin, regarding her husband from under raised eyebrows. “Really?”

Marty stared back with a look of such wounded surprise that Jennifer immediately dismissed her skepticism. Dropping the newspaper, she came forward to kneel before her husband. “Oh, Marty, I’m sorry, that's not what I meant – “ She leaned forward to pull him down into an embrace. He melted into her, nestling his face against her neck.

“I just was thinking,” Jennifer continued, as she stroked Marty’s hair, “that the kids you teach wouldn’t really be aware of what had happened. If they even know who Queen is.”

“Are.”

“What?”

“Are, not is.” Marty pulled back, sniffling. “Who Queen _are_. It’s a British thing – you use ‘are’ when you refer to bands from England, even if their names sound singular.”

Jennifer sighed lightly. “Fine. Would the kids you teach know who Queen are?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Marty questioned, the wounded expression returning. “Okay, maybe the little kids wouldn’t know, but the fifth graders, and probably the fourth graders, would recognize Queen’s music. ‘We Are the Champions’? ‘Another One Bites the Dust’? Jesus, Jennifer - just because some of the kids I teach have disabilities doesn’t mean that they’re dumb.”

Jennifer sat back on her haunches, gaping at her husband. “I never said they were – you’re twisting my words. I just meant I didn’t think elementary school kids would be that interested in a rock band like Queen, that they’d enjoy more of the pop-type music, like Michael Jackson or New Kids.” Her look hardened into a glare. ”And don’t go throwing your ‘tolerance’ in my face and act like you never had a problem with disabled kids.”

“That was back in high school!” 

“That was just a few years ago, when you first met Benji and you avoided him – “

“Now who’s throwing something into my face?”

The newlyweds stared silently at each other for several moments. Marty broke first. “Jenn, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. And you’re right, I did kinda ignore Benji at first. I’m just – “ he nodded at the newspaper that Jennifer had let fall to the floor. “I’m just really rattled by this, and I’m taking it out on you.” He ran his hands through his hair, causing a few random strands to stick up. “I can't go in to school today.”

Jennifer turned her head to regard the clock. “Marty, it’s already twenty after. You’re supposed to be there in less than a half hour – how can you call in so close to your start time?”

“I’m expected at 7:45, but the first class doesn’t start until 8:15. . . And what if we had some family emergency that just happened to take place right before I was supposed to be at school? You wouldn’t be bringing up the time of day then,” Marty pointed out.

“But we don’t have a family emergency! It’s just some singer who died!”

Marty stood up abruptly, shoving his chair back. “He’s not just ‘some singer’ to me!”

Jennifer spread her hands out. “I know he means more to you! But will your principal understand? You don't want to get disciplined while you're still student teaching. And what if your co-op teacher isn't able to take your classes? Do you get a sub?"

“I guess I’ll find out,” Marty muttered, walking over to the phone on the wall near the counter.

After calling in with an indeterminate illness and speaking with his cooperative teacher, discussing the lesson plans, video tapes, and work sheets he’d set aside for an unplanned absence, Marty went upstairs to change clothes. He traded his new khakis for jeans, and after taking off his button-down oxford, he dug into his drawer of concert tee-shirts and pulled out one he’d purchased at a record store near the HVU campus. He drew the appropriately black shirt over his head, then sank down onto the bed, feeling edgy and somewhat sick.

“Marty?” Jennifer called, as she climbed the stairs to their bedroom. When she reached the room, she pushed the door open carefully and studied her desolate husband. “Are you going to be all right?”

Marty lifted a limp hand and made a halfhearted gesture. “I guess.”

Jennifer stepped into the room and approached the bed. She gazed at Marty’s tee-shirt, a black one with the name “Queen” and the band’s crest printed on it in white. “Nice shirt,” she said softly.

“Yeah.”

Jennifer sat down on the bed next to her husband. “Marty, it won’t do you any good to sit around here brooding. Why don’t you call one of your old bandmates? You can remember and commiserate together.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Paul went through this when we were kids, when Lennon was killed. You know how he and his family are big Beatles fans?” Jennifer nodded. “So he’d know where I’m coming from, I guess,” Marty said. He then sighed morosely. “But I don’t know. I feel like if I talk to one of the guys, we’re just gonna drag each other down and I’ll feel even worse.”

“What about Doc?”

Marty shrugged again. “I don’t think he’d get it.”

“That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try to help. Marty, really, you should talk to somebody.” Jennifer reached over and hugged him. “I just want you to feel better.”

“Yeah. . .” This time the word was said with a shaky exhale. They embraced for a while, Jennifer lightly rubbing Marty’s back as he rested his head on her shoulder.

“Uh, hon. . . I have to get dressed for work.”

“Oh. Yeah, sorry.” Marty pulled out of the embrace, then watched Jennifer rise and go to her dresser, fishing out a bra and some nylons. “Half-day today you said?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Jennifer confirmed as she shed her nightshirt and put on the undergarments. “Then I was going to stop at the store. But even with the shopping, I think I should be home by two.” Moving to the closet, she selected a skirt, and stepped into it. “But I can come home right away if you need me to. I can go shopping tomorrow.” She picked out a blouse that complemented the skirt and pulled it on.

“No, you shouldn’t put it off any longer. You do that and the store will run out of the stuff you need, like those little mini marshmallows.”

Jennifer smiled, turning to her husband as she tucked her blouse into her skirt. “That’s redundant, Marty. Little _and_ mini? You don’t need both adjectives.”

He attempted a wan grin. “Oh, getting me back for correcting you on English band verbs?”

“What?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Would I do something like that?” Her teasing tone coaxed a slightly larger smile from Marty, although it was short-lived.

Jennifer chose a pair of low heels, and came back to sit on the bed to put them on. Afterwards she reached for Marty again, stroking his face. “Please don’t sit here alone and mope. Promise me you’ll call somebody. Or go see Doc.”

He nodded woodenly. “I will. I promise.”

Once Jennifer left for her part-time job at the HVCC library, Marty did mope around the house for about an hour. Eventually he grabbed his keys and a few cassette tapes, and headed out to his 4x4. Although he didn’t aim his truck in the direction of a certain scientist’s farmhouse.

Instead he let his muscle memory lead him back to 9303 Lyon Drive.

* * *

Since Marty had moved out of his parents’ home a few weeks before he and Jennifer had tied the knot in early August, he was still never sure if he should knock when he returned. He had an urge to just let himself in, like he’d been doing ever since he’d first been trusted to leave the house alone (which had probably been around age eight or nine – he could still recall the first time he’d walked over to a nearby park _by himself,_ without his parents or Linda or Dave accompanying him). But he worried that if he just walked into his childhood home with no warning, that his parents would be startled or even briefly frightened.

So he knocked.

Marty expected his mother to answer and he wasn’t disappointed. “Marty!” she exclaimed once she opened the door. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

He ducked his head, not wanting to meet his mother’s eyes. “Ah, I called in today.”

“Why? What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Lorraine moved aside so Marty could enter.

“Not exactly.” He stepped into the house, glancing about. “Is Dad around?”

George McFly was almost three months into a sabbatical from his teaching job at Hill Valley Community College. He had taken the leave in order to work on a new book requested by his agent: a companion piece to _A Match Made in Space,_ this one to be written in the point-of-view of the alien.

“Yes, he’s around,” Lorraine sighed. “He’s been staring at that computer since five a.m. I tried to get him to take a break to eat, but he just came out to grab a cup of coffee and a doughnut and then went right back in his study.”

Marty glanced in the direction of the study, then cut his eyes back to his mother. Lorraine was watching him closely, her arms crossed in front of her. “You look pale, Marty. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” She uncrossed her arms, bringing a hand to her son’s forehead.

Marty shrugged away from her touch. “I’m not sick, okay?” he burst out. “Christ, Mom!”

Lorraine straightened, her eyes widening. “There is no reason for that language, young man. Just because you’re married now doesn’t mean you can’t be respectful to your mother.”

Marty threw up his hands, shaking his head at the floor. “I know, I’m sorry. Rough morning.”

“Did you and Jennifer have a fight?”

“ _No_ , Mom. I just – “ Marty looked toward the study again. “I just need to talk to Dad about something."

“Anything I can help you with?”

Marty stared at his youthful, attentive, and supportive mother, the one he’d almost become used to in the six years since he’d inadvertently time-traveled and ended up changing his family’s history. He could still remember when Lorraine had been too drunk, depressed, and self-centered to really care about what her children were going through. There _had_ been times when she’d been a good mother, when she’d seemed almost normal, and that had made the bad times even worse. Because Marty had known Lorraine _could_ improve herself . . . if she tried. And when she didn’t try, he’d often wondered if that meant Lorraine didn’t think her children were worth the effort. The inconsistency and the unpredictability had often sent Marty’s anxiety through the roof.

“Marty?”

Marty jerked to attention. “Huh? What?”

Lorraine reached for him again, but instead of checking his temperature, she now slid a hand down his cheek and cupped his chin. “Honey, what is wrong?”

“Mom . . .” Marty fought to control himself, knowing that if he broke in front of his mother that all bets would be off, and she’d be hovering over him trying to fix something that just couldn’t be fixed. “I really gotta talk to Dad.”

Lorraine sighed. “All right. And after you two talk, maybe _you_ can get him to take a break. He’s so obsessed with getting a certain number of pages in to his publisher each week that he barely leaves that room.”

Marty attempted a grin. “Well, he has to leave it on Thursday, to come to Thanksgiving at our place. Jennifer’s pulling out all the stops.”

“You’re not going to let her do all the work, I hope?” Lorraine said, mildly scolding her son.

“Uh – the cooking, yeah.” When Lorraine frowned, Marty quickly added, “But that’s just because she doesn’t want me in the way. I’ve been relegated to cleaning.” Marty leaned closer to his mother, lowering his voice in a secretive fashion. “So when you and Dad come over on Thursday, make sure you both mention how sparkling clean the place is, okay?”

Marty had to knock repeatedly on the study door before George acknowledged the noise. “What is it, Lorraine?”

Marty opened the door, then edged inside. “It’s me, Dad.”

George looked up from the computer monitor, staring oddly at his son. “Marty?”

“Last time I checked.”

George peered again at the monitor, then turned in his chair to check the clock on the wall. “Shouldn’t you be at work?

“I’m off today," Marty answered vaguely.

George leaned back in his chair. “I didn't think your school was closed all week for the holiday.”

“It's not. I took today off.” Marty stepped further into the room, easing himself into the armchair near the corner of George’s desk.

George tapped a few keys on the keyboard, then clicked off the computer monitor. He next spun his chair so that could face his son. “You took the day off? Will that impact your student teaching status?"

"It's only one day."

"One day on an already short week, and after you had missed those two days last month. . ."

"I had pink eye!" Marty said, irritated. "They didn't want me there while I was contagious - forget that it was one of the students that gave it to me." Then his anger deflated. "I had to call in. I wouldn't have been able to concentrate on teaching today."

"Why? Did something happen between you and Jennifer?”

“No!" Marty exploded, indignant. His temper started rising again. "Mom asked that, too! Why do you both immediately think I’ve got marriage problems?”

George held up a hand to ward off his son’s ire. “I’m sorry – it’s just unusual for you to show up unexpectedly like this, when you’re supposed to be at work.” He studied his son. _"Something’s_ wrong – I can tell that just by looking at you.”

Marty rubbed the back of his neck, gazing at the floor. “Yeah, there is something wrong. Um, someone died.”

George leaned closer, his face creased in concern. “A friend?”

“Not exactly. . . It was Freddie Mercury. He died yesterday.”

“Freddie. . ?“ George sat back again. “I don’t think I know who that is.”

“What? Are you serious? Freddie Mercury! Queen!” Marty gestured at his tee-shirt. “You have to know who Queen are – both Dave and I listened to them. I’m sure you’d recognize their songs.”

George shrugged, so Marty went on. “Radio Ga-Ga,’ ‘Under Pressure,’ ‘Somebody to Love’ – ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’! Dad, you gotta know ‘Bohemian Rhapsody'! The one with the opera section in it?”

“Oh!” George suddenly smiled. “Yes, I do know that one! Something about a ‘silhouette of a little man’ – “

 _“I see a little silhouetto of a man,_ " Marty corrected, singing softly.

George hummed appreciably. “The lead singer, he’s that one with the dark hair and the mustache, correct?”

“Well, he didn't exactly have. . . " Marty stopped, not seeing the point in confusing his father more by detailing facial hair changes. "Yeah, that’s Freddie Mercury.”

“And he . . . died?”

"Yesterday. He'd been sick - AIDS." Marty felt his eyes tear up. “Damn it!” he hissed, “I hate this!” He took a deep breath, running his hands over his face. “I grabbed some Queen tapes to listen to in the truck on the way here, and I had to turn the radio off, because I didn’t want to be crying while I was driving.”

George tsked softly. “This really hit you hard, didn’t it?”

Marty was unable to answer. He blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears. He stomach was twisted painfully, his face felt hot, and he wasn’t completely sure why.

“Marty.”

Marty looked up to see his father holding out his handkerchief. Marty took it grudgingly, and wiped his eyes with the cloth. “I’m sorry for acting like this, Dad.”

“It’s all right,” George answered gently. “I think I understand.”

Marty chuckled through his tears. “Then you’ve got one on me.” He heaved a sigh. “Freddie’s not the first big musician who’s died since I got into music. Obviously there was John Lennon. Uh, Roy Orbison, Stevie Ray Vaughan . . . Metallica’s bass player, the one who died in that bus accident? Um, Burton.“ He shrugged disconsolately. “But when I read in the paper about Freddie, it was such a shock - it felt like a sucker punch. It _hurt._ I don't remember feeling this way when I heard the news about the other guys.”

George nodded thoughtfully. “Well, how much did you listen to those other artists? Did you follow them as much, enjoy their music?”

“Uh. . . “ Marty twisted the handkerchief between his hands. “Sort of. . . I never got into Metallica. Stevie Ray Vaughan was a hell of a guitar player. . ." He smiled faintly as he remembered imitating Vaughan on a stage at a high school dance, a year before the Texan musician had been born. "Roy Orbison was great, and I remember being sad when he died, but not like I am about Freddie.” He slouched in the chair, tipping his head back to gaze at the ceiling. “I think if I was more aware of it when it happened, John Lennon’s death would have really hurt, but I was only twelve. I do remember Paul kinda lost it, but his whole family was upset, so. . . “ He straightened up to better face his father. “What about you and Mom? Were you guys really upset when Lennon was shot?” Marty honestly couldn’t remember, and he didn’t know if it was because of not recalling the memory (either the Twin Pines or the Lone Pine memory), or if his parents actually hadn’t expressed their reactions to John Lennon’s death.

George nodded slowly. “I thought it was a tragedy. It was hard to understand why someone would want to do something like that, to rob the world of Lennon’s presence and creativity. Whether it had been likely or not, there went any chance of a Beatles reunion. But even without the other Beatles, John’s solo work had been superb. Really something to admire. And a madman with a gun ended all of that.” George sighed sadly. “There was so much more that might’ve been possible, more he might’ve done. . . “

“Exactly!” Marty cried. “I feel that way about Freddie. It’s like, all there could’ve been, all he could’ve accomplished, whether it was writing more songs or performing their old stuff or even producing . . . it’s all been lost. There’s no getting it back, no. . . “ He slammed his hand on the arm of the chair. “It just makes me so mad! I’m mad at him for being the way he was, for getting himself sick – and I’m mad at myself, for judging him.”

“You feel his death didn’t have to be.”

“Yeah,” Marty said, his voice small.

George nodded in sympathy. “That’s how your mother felt about Lennon. She was sad, but she was also angry. His death didn’t make sense. Well, death rarely does. I know she and I had a good cry, but we didn’t want to scare you kids, so we tried to keep our emotions to ourselves.” He was quiet for a minute, musing. “Dave did notice, and I remember we talked to him about it a little, but he was older than you, he understood a bit more about what had happened.”

“That makes sense,” Marty murmured. He wasn’t offended that his parents had talked to Dave about their reaction to Lennon’s murder. Marty enjoyed the Beatles' music and recognized that they had been some super-group in the ‘60s, and he’d been aware of John Lennon's solo work - but in 1980 he’d been more interested in the new rock groups on the rise. Like most of his peers, he’d paid more attention to artists like Def Leppard and Duran Duran and Foreigner.

And Queen.

George had continued talking. “I think another tragic part of it all was John's age. He was so young – just 40. He had two boys, and Sean was still little. But at the same time, I felt a kind of relief, that he he'd had children. That there was someone to carry on his legacy, if they chose to do so. And if his sons ever have kids, then John will never be completely gone.” He tipped his head with a grim smile. “I guess that’s sort of selfish, to only think of his children as some sort of vessel to the past, but in some ways I think that’s why people have children. In an attempt at immortality. Although John's music is really what does that. As long as his music survives, and the music of The Beatles survives, John will never be forgotten.”

“Freddie Mercury didn’t have kids,” Marty said quietly. “At least, I’m pretty sure not. You know how people come out of the woodwork and say they’re a celebrity’s kid? I guess I could see that happening now, some asshole trying to get famous for a few minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes,” George said. ‘In the future, everybody will be world-famous for fifteen minutes.’”

Marty chuckled wryly, not surprised that his writer father would know the words by heart. ' _In the **future** ,' _he thought to himself. _I wonder if Doc has that quote memorized_. ”That’s that Andy Warhol quote, right?”

George lifted a hand, making a so-so gesture. “It’s questionable who first said it, but it’s commonly attributed to Warhol, yes.” 

“Man.” Marty laughed again. “That sounds like something Doc would say. You’ve been talking to him about science stuff for your new book, haven’t you? You always start to talk like him when you guys get together.”

“We’ve chatted some,” George admitted with a grin. He studied his amused son. “Are you feeling a little better?”

Marty stared back, then closed his eyes with a soft grunt. “I _was_. I forgot for like a minute.”

“That's what happens. Something will take your mind off of it, and everything will be okay. . . until you remember again. Until you hear a song, or see a video, or read an article. Mourning is like that. But eventually it’ll be easier to accept. You’ll be able to appreciate what his music meant to you without feeling grief.”

“I don’t know how,” Marty said. “The news will be everywhere, and it’s my _profession._ When I go back to school I know some of the older kids will bring it up, and how am I supposed to explain it to them when I can’t figure out my own . . . grieving?”

“What about talking to your old band members? Maybe they – “

Marty shook his head. “Jenn suggested that too, but I think that would almost make me feel worse. We used to play some stuff from Queen when we first got together as a band. Before we knew how to write our own music, all we were doing was playing our favorite songs.” He smiled. “We were just kids goofing off back then – “ He broke off suddenly, his face clearing. “Huh.” 

“What?” George asked curiously.

“We were kids. And then Grandpa Sam died. I graduated. Pete went away to USC, Isaac became a frickin’ father, I ended up at HVU, I got engaged, married. . . And now Jennifer and I have our own place, and we’re having you guys and her parents over for Thanksgiving. Everything’s changed.”

“You grew up.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Marty explained. “Freddie dying is like a part of my youth dying. It really drives home how I’m older now, and that I’m not immortal. That everyone dies.” He looked at his father with a kind of desperation. “You’re gonna die, and Mom, and Doc, and I don’t like to think about that, I don’t _want_ to think about that, but . . . but it’s gonna happen.”

“Hopefully not for a long time,” George said dryly.

“Well, yeah – No, I didn’t. . . “ Marty sputtered, flustered. “I’m just trying to sort this all out, why I feel so sad, I didn’t mean anything – “

“It’s okay, son.” George leaned forward and patted Marty’s leg. “I know what you’re saying. No one likes to be reminded of their mortality, but it’s inescapable. That’s why you have to appreciate and savor everything in your life, big and small. A beautiful sunset. Singing along to a popular song on the radio. The first kiss you and Jennifer had as a married couple. Watching your favorite team win the World Series.” He winked. “Hosting your first Thanksgiving in your new home.”

“I get it, Dad.” Marty smiled sincerely at his father, marveling on this improved George McFly - a guy who was smart, sensitive, and funny. So much different from the shy milquetoast that he’d been in Marty’s earlier memories. That George McFly had occasionally had heart-to-heart talks with his youngest son, but nothing approaching the seriousness of death and mortality and the idea of just living your life without reserve, because you never knew when that life might end. 

There was a knocking on the study door, and then Lorraine poked her head inside. “If you two are done talking, I was going to make grilled cheese and soup for lunch.” She looked to her son. “Are you staying for lunch, Marty?”

“For grilled cheese? You bet I am.” Marty rose, then gestured at his father. “Let's go, Dad. Take a break. Savor the experience of sitting down to soup and sandwiches with your wife and your son.”

George rose as well, stretching. “You might have a point, Marty.” As he and Marty followed Lorraine out of the study, George slung an arm over Marty’s shoulder. “However you feel right now about Freddie Mercury’s death, just think about how lucky you were to be alive at the same time as him, and to be able to discover and enjoy and even imitate his music.”

“Yeah. . . “ Marty said slowly, not entirely convinced. “I just wish I knew how important he was going to be to me - you know, when I was a kid? I didn’t appreciate him and his music as much back then. Maybe if I had, I would’ve tried to go see him in concert when Queen came to California...”

“Well, you can’t do much about it now,” George said, not untruthfully. “Unless you have a time machine.”

**_END_ **

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The title of this story is a line from the John Lennon song "Nobody Told Me," which John was unable to complete recording because of his death. Yoko Ono finished the song and it was released in 1984. (The title is also fairly close to "These Are the Days of Our Lives," the name of the Queen song that is used for an introductory lyric.)
> 
> 2) Both Marty and Jennifer mention Benji, and Marty's initial awkwardness with the boy. This is a reference to one of my previous BTTF stories, [ **_Missing Time_ ** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25292935/chapters/61323652).


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